Engines and Leather
by The Slinkster
Summary: No destination in mind...he just drives.


**Title:** Engines and Leather

**Author:** The Slinkster

**Rating: **Mature

**Disclaimer: **Not mine

**Note: **For PornBattle XII over on LJ (.) for the prompts: silence, hazy, zipper, sleepy, mouth, raspy

The last time he saw her she'd been so frustrated with him words escaped her. She'd just balled her fists by her sides, muttered something about him and manicure scissors, and walked away.

She's been irritable lately – in the weeks since Luke. She was acting tough, but Sam saw the exterior cracking. And soon, he knew, it would break…if she didn't first.

So here he was, on his way to her apartment – leather jacket, sunglasses, and a Harley. The bike roared up the street, rumbling under him as he guides it to her doorstep. The loud engine noise draws curious homeowners to their windows, and when she finally is annoyed enough to look out he holds his arms wide, helmet in one hand, a cocky grin on his face. She disappears behind the curtain again, a smile forming.

Two minutes later, her door opens and she is walking towards him – jeans, white t-shirt, and boots. Arms crossed over her chest, she asks, "what's this?"

"_This_…is just what you need. Fresh air. Hop on, McNally, let's go for a ride." He holds the helmet out to her, offering.

"Where's yours?" She asks, strapping the half shell under her chin. Swinging her leg over the back seat, she settles with her hands resting on his stomach, arms wrapped around his middle.

"What? And mess up my hair?" He scoffs, revs the engine and they are off.

No destination in mind, he just drives. Out of the city, off the main roads, and onto the back ones. They are isolated with the trees and the wind and the silence. He focuses on the road in front of him, careful, while her breath brushes across his neck with each exhale.

They are easily fifty miles out of the city when he feels her hands drift downwards. At first he thinks maybe she is getting sleepy…dozing while he drives. But then there is a purpose to her movements. One hand moves up to his chest, stroking, while the other moves down…further. Close but not close enough. And the road starts to get hazy in his vision. He yanks the bike over to the side of the road with the last bit of control he has left.

His muscles extend and contract as he pulls her around in front of him. He takes her mouth with his – tongue invading, teeth nipping. She isn't idle. Her hands find the bottom of his shirt under his jacket and slide up finding the imprints her fingertips left behind last time and gripping.

Breaking free of her mouth, his lips trail down to her neck. Nipping where the clasp of the helmet she still wears rests against her skin. Down, down, down and he's pushing her back to lean against the handlebars pushing her simple white shirt up to place biting kisses against her stomach. Her hands find his hair, threading through and_ clenching_ when his teeth mark the place where her collarbone meets shoulder.

He glances up and her eyes are closed, her head weighed down by the helmet, resting against his bike. He takes a moment to appreciate the picture she makes here before his hands slip lower, to the button and zipper of her jeans. As the teeth of the zipper part, he gets a peak of something white and lacy before she's sitting up again. Urgent. Mouth finding his again as his fingers trace the top of her panties.

"God…Sam." The way she says his name is almost too much. The bike is still vibrating beneath them, adding to the sensations they're already creating. And when he finally dips his fingers down to find her – bare and _fuck_ but wants to see her – she _moans_ long and low. She's wet already and he wonders how many miles back she started feeling like this.

She's riding his fingers, his hand, and every time she comes down the vibrations of the engine transfer to his fingers and she makes a sound in the back of her throat he's determined to hear again – without the background noises trying to drown her out.

When she comes around his fingers – head thrown back, mouth open, his name on her lips – he thinks her pleasure is good enough for both of them. But then she's back and struggling with his button fly, her fingers a little shaky.

"Andy, you don't have t-" He breaks off on a curse as her hand circles around him, pulling. His head falls to her shoulder, eyes half closed because he'd be damned if he misses the sight of her hand on him. She takes the time to trace him, learn him, and he thinks he'll beg just this once if it'll get her to _move_.

"Andy…" It comes out raspy, like he's been smoking for the last twenty years. And her hand is moving, stroking and squeezing and his fingers are still inside her. He distracts himself from coming too soon by curling his fingers against her and rubbing his thumb in circles against her clit. She gasps and her hand falters for a second before continuing the rhythm.

The only sounds come from bike engine and them. Moans, gasps, and sighs. Just as she starts to flutter around his fingers for the second time, his other hand grasps hers where she grips him and he strokes himself with her hand. They climax together, the world coming to a screeching halt as pleasure borders on pain.

When he can move again, he removes his fingers from her pants and licks them clean. Uses a towel he has in his saddle bags to wipe his semen off their hands, stashes it back inside and reminds himself to wash it later. They readjust, rearrange, and head back into town. The silence between them is comfortable.

When he pulls up to her apartment, she unclasps the helmet and hands it back to him.

"Thanks for the ride, Sam." Her voice is a little lower than usual.

"Anytime, McNally, anytime." His eyes watch her walk back into her building, and when she looks back over her shoulder before she closes the door the cocky grin is back and he winks at her.


End file.
